


If I burn...

by d_aia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, One-Sided Relationship, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_aia/pseuds/d_aia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is obliged by law to accept one werewolf from the two that chose him. He isn't very enthusiastic about the idea. After all, what do they say? </p>
<p>'If I burn, you burn too.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I burn...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. 
> 
> Warnings: The relationship angle might surprise you, also some of you might notice that it has triggers for rape/non-con (though none of that actually happens), for torture, for violence and for panic (attack). It's generally trigger-y. Continue only if you think it's for you.

_If I burn, you burn too_

 

Stiles took a deep breath, though it did nothing for his annoyance and thus his fidgeting. He hated this. Hated that he was forced to stay in line and wait for the werewolves to choose one of the people gathered—16 to 25, both genders. For what? Mating season. That actually contained less sex that it implied, it was more of a compatibility and a status thing.  For the werewolves, but also for the mates. On what bases were they chosen? Only the werewolves knew. But here was the kicker. The humans of a certain age weren’t allowed to say ‘no’. Things changed after twenty-five—mostly because if by then no werewolf chose you, they probably weren’t going to—but as Stiles was barely eighteen, it didn’t apply. Whoever was chosen had the _legal_ obligation to accept. And go along. _That_ was where the line was between slavery and selling themselves for money and celebrity status. And it didn’t fall into the right category, if there ever was one.

 

Seeing as Stiles was not a looker and he never put much effort into being chosen, he didn’t have many chances of this being this problem. Which was why he was only agitated instead of being downright pissed. Stiles knew that his rebellion was mostly due to the fact that he was magic—not that anyone knew—and magic users were always famous for doing whatever the hell they wanted and practically ignoring the rules. So, not his fault. Well, it was his fault because he had been magic all his life and he has never been not-magic, but it wasn’t. Or something. Anyway, he didn’t think that it would have sat better with him if he was a simple human.

 

He couldn’t understand why no one else seemed to be seeing the problem. True, there had been Kate Argent—like six years ago—who torched the huge mansion the Hales lived at, but there was rage and then there was overkill. After all, they were children in that house. And even if there weren’t, killing everybody would hardly resolve anything. It might feel like it would, but really, no. Maybe the rest just saw Kate’s behavior as a warning sign of madness and tried to stay clear of anything that struck as alike. There may have been people who thought that. Who knew? He certainly wasn’t dismissing the possibility.

 

But these people… Preening and fluffing and fluttering and flexing… it was sickening. Like there have all been brainwashed into wishing this, wanting this. And if Stiles thought about it, that was a better strategy than going into this screaming and kicking. Still. He had to believe that something could be changed, if only people would be united in their disapproval and hatred of the practice.

 

No one hated it.

 

No one even disapproved.

 

So here Stiles was. In line. Waiting with the million—actually a few hundred—fussing people. Wishing he had been anywhere else. Anywhere. Like in the middle of a tornado in Kansas, anywhere.

 

There were three werewolves who were making their choice today, the others either having chosen a spouse—the big prize for those who wanted to be chosen—or were traveling. Three were enough, though—Daniel Hale, a nephew from Steve’s side of the family, Peter Hale, Talia’s brother and Derek Hale, son of Talia and Steve. There were rumors that Cora Hale, Derek’s sister, would try her luck, but nothing too seriously. Apparently, she was a bit too young.

 

At a signal from Harris, the werewolves started their prowl. Sometimes they even chose the same mate. Stiles huffed. He didn’t understand the process and it didn’t make it any more appropriate. Though he did know that the fantasy of two werewolves fighting over one human was the stuff of movies.

 

While Daniel was to the right, giving a girl Stiles didn’t know the moment of a lifetime, he didn’t notice that both the remaining wolves had stopped. At him. Derek in front, Peter in the back and Stiles only noticed when they stated growling at each other. Hell, by the manipulative shit Peter had pulled since the fire, he probably didn’t even mean it.

 

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Stiles groaned.

 

From the corner of his eyes Stiles saw Peter smirk. “Ah ah. We just made your wish come true. You should be more polite.”

 

Fury rose within Stiles. That was one of the reasons why his mom, and then him, never told anyone Stiles was magic. They had a reputation of being… volatile. “I don’t know about that,” Stiles face gapped into a smile. It was so fake, it literary hurt. “When I’m nervous, I feel kind of nauseous. What if I projectile vomited on you? What happens then?” Stiles was very careful about keeping it hypothetical, werewolves had their advantages.

 

Peter lifted an eyebrow, _stepping back_ a pace.

 

“Oh, look,” Stiles rushed to finish his sentence, “he gave up.” He nodded faux wisely. 

 

Naturally, that just made Peter smirk wider. He licked his fangs. “I want,” he growled.

 

Okay, that scared Stiles a bit. Not enough to shut him up, but he was frightened. “You really, really don’t,” Stiles said, chocking on hysterical laughter. He turned to Derek. “Why don’t you try to find somebody who’s, you know… unthreatened?”

 

Derek shook his head. He was a talker. Peter gave one last creepy stare, took a whiff of Stiles’s scent and made a beeline for Jackson. That done, Peter turned and smiled triumphantly. Fucking Hales.

 

Stiles could hear everybody whispering, but he couldn’t give a damn. So, he had been chosen. That grated on him. But, it wasn’t all bad. It was actually—the worst. It was, also, the law. And he had to respect it. It was only for a month. Maybe, he… could… It wasn’t really _that_ long. It was. It so was.

 

They were all in a town car heading towards the Hale Mansion. The whole way he was fidgety. This whole mate business wasn’t a decision he had made, it wasn’t his choice. He found himself put in this position with almost no way out—there were ways out, but none that left his father, the Sheriff, without facing consequences for what Stiles did. To sum things up, he had to do it or else his father would pay. That didn’t relax him the slightest bit. It made him bitter.

 

The other occupants went on ignoring him. Cora hadn’t found anyone, the girl—Catherine—and Jackson were beyond themselves basking in the imagined attention. Daniel seemed to be trying to talk to Catherine, but she was too busy daydreaming and soon he found himself in a conversation with Peter, who hadn’t even tried to begin a conversation with his mate. Derek was still creepily staring.

 

It was the strangest thing. The closer they got the more Stiles’s body was itching. First his chin. Then his wrist. His ankle. His head. His eyes. His other wrist. His other ankle. When he finally figured it out, they were mostly at the mansion’s gates. It was his magic warning him away.

 

“No! Stop the car!” Stiles shouted.

 

The driver stopped and Stiles exited in a hurry, hands scratching all over his body.

 

“Get back in the car,” said Derek from very close.

 

Stiles started. “Hey!”

 

“Get back,” Derek repeated.

 

“No, I am not going back,” Stiles said, resolute.

 

Derek huffed, exasperated.

 

“I can’t go back! I can’t come with you!” Stiles shouted. “Listen to my heart, I’m not lying.”

 

“You were moody since we picked you.” Derek rolled his eyes.

 

Stiles was furious. “Moody?!” He flickered the word away with a flap of his wrist. “And it’s different.”

 

“How’s it different?”

 

Closing and opening his mouth, Stiles realized he couldn’t tell him. “It just is, okay?”

 

Derek went back to creepy staring, unimpressed. “Get back in the car.”

 

“What?” Stiles asked, incredulous. “No!”

 

“It is my legal right!” Derek shouted back. “So get. Back. In the car,” he growled.

 

“Do you even hear yourself?” Stiles questioned, agitated and disgusted. He knew this was how it worked, but if it hadn’t happened to him, he hadn’t really _understood_. “That doesn’t mean that it’s okay.”

 

Derek rolled his eyes like his words meant nothing and grabbed Stiles’s arm. Struggling, Stiles knew his strength couldn’t compare to a werewolf, so he almost reached for his magic. The he stopped. Remembering his magic was secret, his father was the Sheriff and the law was the law. He couldn’t believe it, he was in a situation that made it impossible for him defend himself. This was actually happening. To him. Now. And all he could do was struggle. He was disgusted, mostly with himself.

 

As they headed towards the car, Stiles saw Peter leaning out of the car. He had a pensive expression, but when he saw Stiles looking, the smarmy smile made a comeback. Though, Peter did glare at Jackson’s joke about Stiles being a drama queen. What do you know, the man had layers.

 

The itching stopped the moment they reached the gates as if the warning was no longer valid once Stiles was on the property anyway. But as they went through the door he felt as if he had just finished the longest run of his life and before he knew it, he had started gulping down breaths. His hands were shaking when he went to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. He knew what this looked like—a panic attack. Only one problem with that, there wasn’t anything that scared him right now. Furious, sure. Bitter. But frightened? Well, he did feel caged, but that only served to make him mad.

 

“Panic attack?” Peter questioned, studying him carefully.

 

Derek exchanged glances with Peter before placing his hand gently on his shoulder. “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

 

Stiles gave a giggle through grasping breaths. “No. Only make me do things I don’t want do.”

 

Shaking his head, Derek said softly, “It’s the law.”

 

Though the air was still thin, Stiles felt the first notes of anger thrumming through his body. Like that was a valid argument, like it was somehow meant to relax because if it was the law, it meant that it would never be unfair to anybody. “Is that the only thing you know how to say?”

 

“What do you want me to say? It’s my right, of course I’ll defend it,” Derek explained bewildered.

 

“What to I wan— I want you to say that your _rights_ aren’t more important than mine. I want you to stop referencing the law as if it had never been wrong.” Stiles took a deep breath, his panic attack—if he even had one—was gone. “I want you to say you are free to go.”

 

Jackson and Catherine were scandalized. If Stiles would care, it would have been funny. Daniel wanted nothing to do with it and Peter studied Stiles attentively. Derek made a fed up noise.

 

“I can’t,” Derek said quietly. “The media would make a riot and I would be left without a mate.”

 

Recognizing the truth, Stiles huffed, shaking his head sadly. He stayed silent. It was the truth, but that didn’t make it any better for Stiles. It was just another shackle tying him to a decision that had been made for him.

 

*

 

There were introductions. A lot of introductions, so many in fact that from the moment Stiles had seen everyone smiling and happy he had given up on getting the names straight. His only chance was meeting them individually and learning about them, because this way is not going to work. By the time they were done, he was staring to get his own name wrong. There was Talia and Steve, then Cora, Derek, Damian, Lara with her husband, Mark, Peter and Daniel, Grandma Hale whose name was… Gloria! And like six other people, four of them kids. Wait, no, Laura not Lara. Oh shit.

 

Everybody welcomed him and he, in turn, was polite. It seemed like the thing to be, even though it angered him. He guessed he got intimidated. Or was done with the whole shebang. Or he was tired. All of the above?

 

“Did you change your mind?”

 

Stiles jumped from where he was going to sit on the couch in Derek’s wing of the house. He turned and saw Derek lurking around. “Wear a bell!” Stiles said loudly, startled. He took a deep breath. “Sheesh.” The world lurched.

 

Derek came around the couch catching Stiles as he swayed. He was really tired. Derek frowned while Stiles sat down.

 

“Are you okay?” Derek earnestly asked.

 

“’m fine. Tired,” Stiles said, closing his eyes.

 

When Derek stayed silent, Stiles cracked open an eye and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “You are hot. For a human.” Stiles opened the other eye, a giggle bubbling in his neck. Derek stopped, made a face and continued, “You have a fever.”

 

“Then I’m not fine,” Stiles said joyously. “Send me home.”

 

Derek sighed. “What can I do to make it better?”

 

“I’m sure I said this already. But, for you, I’ll repeat it,” Stiles said flippantly. His voice became serious as he went on. “Send me home, Derek. Let me go.”

 

Rising out of the seat, Derek paced. “Why do you have to be such a brat about this?” he asked, finally outraged.

 

“A brat?!” Stiles tried to leave the couch, but he didn’t get very far. He gripped the back of it, managing a sitting position. “How am I a brat? Because I don’t want to be forced into something? Because I don’t ask ‘how high’ to your ‘jump’? Because I think this house is seriously against me and I don’t want to stay here? Because I think the law that you use as an excuse is not fair? I have tons of other reason, but it would need someone to listen to me when I talk.

 

“Look, you’re a great guy. I had a kind of a crush on you. Handsome with a dry sense of humor, kind, honest. What wasn’t there to crush on? I mean, if you had asked me on a date, I wouldn’t even hesitate. Hell, given a little more time, I’d have asked you.” Derek looked pleased, but Stiles had to continue, “But now? Now your honesty, your kindness means _nothing_ to me. Because it begins and ends with words. And it pisses me off.

 

“You aren’t forced to do something. _You_ are upset because my unwillingness to do something I am pressured to do is causing you inconvenience.  And your whole, ‘I’m a good guy; no really you are unreasonable, look at how kind I am’ is shit. If you were truly that good—even half as good—you’d have let me go. When you’re in hell, you want to get out of it, you want people with the power to set you free to do just that; you don’t need them giving you a glass of water with ice. That’s not your problem. Your problem is that _you are in hell_.” Stiles finished. His head was pounding.

 

While Derek was trying to find something he could add to Stile’s tirade a phone started ringing. “I’m going leave,” Derek said quietly.

 

It was his dad. Great. “Hey,” Stiles said. He had to say it two times after first producing nothing more than a croak.

 

“Hey son. I heard. How are you?” his father’s worried voice resounded in his head. Man, it was hurting.

 

“I’m doing just fine in captivity, daddy dearest.”

 

“Stiles,” his father sighed. “You know that this is just a way for them to find their spouses and get them used to living with such a big family.”

 

“Right. Well, I’m not a pet to be tamed.” Stiles knew that his father was trying to make him see this as more than a prison, but right now it sounded an awful lot like he was siding with them. At least it sounded like it was getting there and Stiles was afraid of how he’d react.

 

“Stiles,” his father repeated.

 

“You know what, I’ve got to go. Bye.” Call ended, Stiles just let the phone fall on the floor, not having the energy to put it on the table. He was tired of explaining. Himself, his choices, why he thought the way he did. He was exhausted. It made him helpless, which made him mad. But he just didn’t have the energy to start a battle against the windmills so he sat there, mind churning.

 

*

 

When Stiles was able to focus on his surroundings again, he was being carried somewhere.

 

“We have to get him out of here,” Derek’s voice said. He could feel it thundering next to his ear.

 

“What happened?” Even Talia seemed concerned. 

 

Stiles was lifted in… a shrug? That meant that Derek was carrying him. Or did it? “He’s got a fever. It’s bad.”

 

Talia must have done something to disagree, because Stiles could hear Peter. “He did say he wasn’t going into the house.”

 

“No,” there was no mistaking the Alpha voice. “We bring Doctor Deaton here. It’s his fault for getting sick. We were within out right to act as we have. Derek, put him on the couch.”

 

Stiles suddenly saw a strong light through his lids. He opened his eyes and saw a door with what seemed like a small sun behind it. Light was escaping the frame. It soothed everything wrong about him. He needed to get to the light. Stiles whined and struggled, wanting to get closer.

 

Somebody was shouting. “Stop! Stiles, stop!”

 

“The door. I need to get to it. Let me go!” Stiles thought he said. The words were suddenly slippery, hard to grasp. He struggled harder.

 

“There’s no door. Stop, you’ll do more harm to yourself.”

 

Stiles was lowered carefully on the ground. “The light,” he whined. He reached  for the wall, but it was still far. So he started crawling. He used his elbows to push himself forward, his body kind of slithering behind like some kind of great worm.

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

“I think he has a meltdown. That or he…” Stiles recognized that voice. That was Derek.

 

“Is really seeing the light?” And Peter. Sass, so much sass.

 

Stiles kept reaching for the knob, but it was evading him somehow and he was too out of it to think too much about it. He kept trying to reach for it. If he could just grab it! He clawed at the wall, a noise similar to a whine escaping his throat. Stiles needed to get through. Soon enough, there was blood on the wall, but didn’t faze him the slightest bit.

 

What it did have an effect on, however, was a pair of hands who decided that he needed to be moved. Stiles tried to slap them away. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled to their master. “I have to—No.” Stiles suddenly understood what was going on. He was being lifted, but he dismissed the sensation as unimportant. “No. Show yourself.” There had to be someone in this family who was magic—or had been magic—because it was the _wards_ that were making him sick.

 

“He’s totally lost it.” Jackson, as always, snottily offered his opinion. And a responding snarl—Peter, amazingly—both of which were promptly ignored by Stiles. He felt himself being lowered on a comfy surface, but he used all his concentration to reach for his magic.

 

“Show yourself to me,” Stiles said, magic crackling from his words.

 

“That’s weird.”

 

In front of Stiles, floating down, looking at him, there was a woman, smiling. “You are in my daughter’s house, I get to curse you as I wish.”

 

“Daughter?” Stiles asked incredulous.

 

“Gloria,” the woman said serenely.

 

“Holy shit! Okay, no; I was forced to be here,” Stiles defended himself. “That gives me the right to challenge you.”

 

The woman sighed and spared a glance toward her relatives. Magic was sort of rare, made worse by the prejudice and the people that thought they should all be in prison or at a mental hospital. “I am sorry we came to be in this position.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles said as he was reaching once again for his magic.

 

Nothing to do now but hold on and hope. If he lost, he was dead. Being magic was absolutely awesome. Stiles felt hot and then cold. He felt numb, then as extremely sensitive. His heart cease beating and his lungs refused to take a breath. He could feel his magic battling something older, more stable. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t scared, but he was determined and stubborn. His magic while young was powerful and flexible. It wouldn’t let itself get caught or pinned down.

 

Stiles felt something click and everything stop. The battle had been won. All that remained to be seen was by whom.

 

He saw the room clearly at one point, rested and not feverish. Somehow, nobody was looking at him; there was some sort of debate or argument going on. The next moment he was in a bureau of some sort—the place where the wards were anchored—facing a now familiar door. From the inside. He had won. Yay, somebody should take advantage of this momentous occasion and throw confetti. He nudged the door open with a flash of magic, making it bang against the wall. Stiles felt that he deserved that much.

 

And there they were; werewolves and humans, united in their need to gape.

 

“I guess there was a door there after all,” Stiles declared cheerfully.

 

Peter started delicately sniffing the air. “Is this connected to the fact that your scent suddenly permeates this whole house?”

 

Derek raised a hand. “I want to know how come your heart stopped and yet you are still alive.”

 

“Well, he is fine,” Talia sighed. “Derek and Peter stay if you want. Everybody can go back to whatever they were doing,” Talia said.

 

Steve tilted his head. “Lucky.”

 

And that pissed Stiles off. Again. “First of all, I _am_ fine. No thanks to you. Because you were all for getting me in this house and then, it’s his fault he is sick, let’s wait it out.” Stiles turned on Steve. “And yeah, luck was a part of it. You know what else was? Me. I didn’t wait around like some people. You see this,” Stiles showed him his hands complete with bloody nails, “that’s _my_ blood on the walls.”

 

In the silence that followed, Stiles could hear a whooshing sound, like… someone had lit the mansion on fire. He looked around, they were all in the room. Werewolves and humans, mates—all of the people that lived in the house basically—were either in the room already or coming in.

 

“Again?” asked a traumatized Derek. Kate had been his mate. Personally, Stiles thought he should have learned something from it.

 

“We have plans for this now,” Talia said in soothing, but firm voice. She spun on her heel in the far side of the room and… hit a wall. Talia frowned, though her expression was quickly dissolving into one of the despair, her eyes fixed on her pack. The others went around the room testing the boundaries of the barrier. There was concern for themselves and for everybody in the pack written plainly on their faces.

 

Stiles was more picky in his choices. He could live with the older members burning and howling in pain, maybe, but the children didn’t deserve that treatment. In fact, his mind eye which usually a bit further with the imagining, screeched in horror at the mental image and hid in a corner. If he was going to do this, it’ll hurt. But then again, he couldn’t _not_ do it.

 

“Move,” Stiles said, done with everything.

 

“It won’t do you any good. It’s not mountain ash, you can’t manipulate it,” Derek whispered, lost.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes. He stepped through the spell wall. Trying to lift it, he reached for his magic and he succeeded, partially. He could keep it up, but only if he held on and only as far as he could actually lift it.

 

“That confirms my theory that Stiles in magic.” Peter appeared giddy. “Now, now nephew. Only you could first choose a mate to burn us all to crisp, then one to save us all. Good going. Talia?”

 

The Alpha stepped forward. “What do we do?”

 

Shoulders raised in a shrug, Stiles said, “Simply pass. I’m literary lifting it, so try to go under.” The barrier became heavier. “Quickly.”

 

Steve went first, followed by the children—the last one, a boy thanking him sweetly—then Peter, Laura and Mark, Cora, Daniel. He thought he saw Jackson at some point, but he might have missed some, the barrier becoming heavier the longer he held it. Finally, by the time they all passed, he was panting. Derek was through and then only Talia remained. As soon as she was on the other side she looked back at Stiles.

 

“Now what?” Talia asked.

 

Stiles smiled bitterly. “Now you go with the others.”

 

Talia frowned. “And you?”

 

Dropping the spell, Stiles stepped back into the room. “There was one entity going to pass the barrier—one that was magic or the other without. My choice,” Talia’s eyes widened and Stiles stopped smiling. “It’s the laws of magic. The great spells require sacrifice.”

 

“And you think that’s fair?” Talia questioned, puzzled.

 

“I’m responsible for my choices. I suffer the consequences of my decisions,” Stiles felt his lips curve into a smirk. “Can’t imagine of anything fairer.”

 

Talia was rooted to the spot.

 

“You should go,” Stiles said, nodding to the hallway beyond.

 

Reluctantly, Talia went. The smoke was getting thick and she left while she had still oxygen. Stiles thought he heard Derek shout then two people snarl at each other—he assumed Derek and Talia. But Stiles had more important things to worry about. He had magic and with it, he had a choice: to suffer the scars from the fire without the pain or the pain without the scars. Unfortunately, the last option came without having the relief of passing out.

 

Magic had its advantages, but with it came a lot of decision making which was hard on a usual day. That was why Stiles didn’t use magic usually, though when he did he appreciated the freedom of options. Stiles knew the burden of choosing. He had been born with it so to him making the decisions was tough, but not impossible, nor really constituting a deterrent.

 

This time, he chose the pain. Stiles felt distantly the first wave. Considering he was ready for it, he wasn’t as devastated by it as he could have been. But the waves came closer and closer and he stated to scream. Every wave was made up of the first sensation of pain, the one he reflexively flinched from. Then the pain that was promised with that small warning sign became larger and larger. Until it nearly took over his brain, it was like white noise that left nothing behind. He couldn’t think, couldn’t act in any way and couldn’t move; he was paralyzed in agony. Then the wave passed, leaving him panting for that one moment before the next wave hit.

 

It happened over and over again until he didn’t have breath to scream anymore. His throat was scratched raw and his agony was beyond screams and yells, beyond what could be expressed. It was all around him, in him and if could have thought, he would have wanted it to be over. But he couldn’t think. He had lost all connection with the world; all that existed was the pain. Coming in waves, gentle or rough, but never stopping.

 

Until, finally, it did.

 

With a pop, Stiles was transported in a dark, dirty tunnel. Everybody was looking at him, horrified. Stiles tried to smile despite the pain that still lingered and the anger that started to gather, but he got the impression he didn’t quite manage it when all got back was frightened glances and even a couple of flinches. He rolled his eyes.

 

“You owe me,” Stiles said to Talia instead.

 

By the bristling, Talia didn’t agree. She snorted. “You think I didn’t see how whom you wanted to save. We weren’t all on your list.”

 

Smiling viciously, Stiles cheerfully said, “I wanted to save the children. You’re right; you could have all burned for all I cared. _But_ , I didn’t make you stay. And I could’ve. That means that I saved you _and_ your relatives and I didn’t even _have_ to. So… You owe me.”

 

Talia growled, but asked, “What do you want?”

 

Tilting his head, Stiles made a puzzled expression. “Freedom: from you people, form the law that says I have to agree to be a mate, from this ever happening again.”

 

Talia’s jaw muscle twitched violently. “I can’t promise you that, I don’t have the authority.”

 

“…Said the biggest, baddest, most respected Alpha in this part of the Unites States.” Stiles got closer to her, “I happen to think that you do. Make the promise, we’ll see if it’s respected or not.”

 

“What about the hunters?” tried Talia.

 

“Ah, so you have a reason to be in the—” Stiles looked around, “eviction tunnels, I presume, of your burning house. I don’t understand what that has to do with you owing me.”

 

“First you take care of the hunters, then you get your promise,” Talia declared, head held high.

 

“Mom,” said Derek. He sounded crushed.

 

Stiles stared at Talia, his pain a memory but a terrifying one. “No.” The anger still featured prominently. “You can _all_ burn here. I’ll almost get the same things. Besides, I can survive the fire. If you make that promise, I might be persuaded to think ‘the hunters’ over. Keep your pack from breaking one of their claws.”

 

Talia reacted as if she had given up on her soul. That gave Stiles an idea. “Fine,” she said. “You have your freedom—from the pack, werewolves and the Werewolf Acceptance Law.”

 

Nodding, Stiles was satisfied. “Remember what I said about sacrifices?” Stiles hedged.

 

Peter coughed to hide his laugher. Apparently, he had realized where Stiles was going with that line of questioning. Talia glared.

 

“Ask,” Stiles hissed. “That’s _your_ sacrifice.” 

 

To Stiles’s surprise, even though it obviously was taking a lot out of her, Talia started talking. “Please,” only she wasn’t just talking, she was begging, “please, if yo—”

 

Stiles’s hand immediately came up. “Woah, I said ask, not beg.” He did want her to beg, only when he actually heard her going at it, his stomach turned and it sounded wrong. Fortunately, he did say ‘ask’ so the werewolf-lie-detector was useless. “Ask, like someone whose pack was almost lit up. Ask for revenge.”

 

Talia seemed taken aback. She thought about it for a second, “In the name of my pack, which I am the leader of, I ask you to appease their suffering, their fear, their heartbreak by hunting down the bastards who made this happen.” She took a deep breath, “Would that work?”

 

Sensing his blood starting to boil, the promise of revenge so well crafted that Stiles felt a dangerous grin split his lips. This was his chance to get all the aggression out of his system. And, because it was phrased so well, ‘the bastards who made this happen’, it guaranteed it happened to some very bad people. He lifted his right foot and brought it back with the power of his magic. “That’ll work,” he said as the flames from the house gathered snuggly around him. Stiles had to give credit for the visual to Johnny Storm, the Human Torch. What? He needed to have an image for the spell to recreate.    

 

“You can do that?” Derek asked while Peter raised his eyebrows, impressed.

 

Stiles’s grin sharpened. He stepped outside. Feeling the dark on his skin, the wind though the woods, the animals slithering through the trees, it was pretty simple to recognize the hunters. They were like a plague on the land, well, his land—his wards, his magic, his land. Plus, the bullets that were flying his way were kind of a dead give away.

 

He concentrated on the flames, the agony and the sick kind of satisfaction he had from giving it to somebody else. Not anybody else, but somebody who was in the process of burning children—at least that was who they thought was burning. Who does that? Who lies in wait for people who are lucky enough to escape a burning building, only to shoot them down? Stiles was furiously self-righteous and he wasn’t feeling sorry about it.

 

Before he had realized what had happened they were already ash. Sirens could be heard in the distance. The switch flipped again. Stiles breathed in and out, slowly calming himself down. Until he realized that in one of the cars that were coming was his dad. And he had no plausible explanation for what had happened. No. He had that, too. After all, they almost killed him: the wards.

 

*

     

Stiles was coming home from lacrosse practice, tired and sweaty. Today had been Jackson’s first day back and it was like he was reassessing his perceived masculinity by making Stiles write as many suicides as he could. Stiles had daydreams about his couch. It wasn’t healthy.

 

As he climbed down out of the car, making a beeline for the door, somebody cleared their throat. It should be said that Stiles wasn’t proud of what happened next—he startled so badly he almost slapped himself. Fine. He did slap himself. When he turned around he saw Derek and Peter, creeping up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Just as he was debating the merits of starting a rant on ‘why we shouldn’t scare people with PTSD’ Stiles had another idea. Something must have shown on his face because they both took a step back. Too late.

 

Snapping his fingers, Stiles had big pink bells on them in a second. He watched them both study each other with pained expressions. Derek had a particularly sour one.

 

“It’s pink, isn’t it?” Derek asked, none too hopeful.

 

Peter nodded and gave a shrug. Something along the lines of ‘you mess with the bull’. Or at least, that’s what Stiles like to imagine.

 

“You might be interested to know that we’re working on making a modification to the Werewolf Acceptance Law, one that would allow people who are so interested to say ‘no’,” said Peter solicitously. “And that one of the hunters was Gerald Argent, but I guess you know all about it from your father.”

 

Stiles studied Peter for several seconds knowing without a doubt that he had got it. He understood that Stiles wasn’t forgiving them. Probably knew the expressions on Stiles’s face from the mirror. “Go away, Peter,” said Stiles. Suddenly, he felt sympathy for the man. Stiles didn’t know what Peter had lost, whatever part of himself was gone, but he obviously had lost.

 

Peter’s lips curved slightly and he raised a hand in goodbye, disappearing down the road.

 

Derek was watching his uncle with a puzzled expression. “What just happened?”

 

Stiles smiled, amused. “How much would you hate me if I told you ‘your uncle is a wise man’?”

 

Appearing disturbed, Derek kind of whined, “A lot.”

 

“Good,” Stiles said, Cheshire-cat grin on his face, “because I wasn’t planning to.” Derek laughed with gusto. Stiles was a bit lost at the unexpected sound. _But_ that ship had sailed. “Why are you here, Derek?”

 

Derek stopped laughing, making Stiles feel a twinge of guilt. “I guess that means that I’m still not forgiven.” Yes, this was going to suck for everybody, but he had not started it and he didn’t have any responsibility to end it. Especially before he was ready.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged. “Listen,” he paused to gather his thoughts, “I’m not wired that way. Forgive and forget, isn’t really my type. I mean, it’s not totally impossible for me to forgive you eventually. I think.” Stiles flapped his hands around, “But do you really want to wait? For whom? For what? What did we share that was so special? So unique? I’m not forgiving, but I’m also not expecting you to wait for me or to rue the day you were born or whatever the hell.

 

“Face it, those were some shitty circumstances and I have all the reason in the world to be upset. There’s not any making it better. Just… try to get over it.”

 

Sighing loudly, Derek refused to meet his eye. “I guess I’m upset because those _were_ shitty circumstances and I… guess… I was mistaken. I couldn’t tell at the time, but I… didn’t deal with the situation as I should have. As I would have, if I had been who I thought I was.”

 

“Then say you’re sorry, Derek,” Stiles whispered. “And go.”

 

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek said simply, earnestly. He looked at the ground for a few moments. “I don’t think I can deal with not being forgiven for something I’ve done.”

 

Stiles caught Derek’s eyes. “I can’t help you with that.” He turned and went inside while listening to Derek give one last sigh and drive off.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I actually love Derek and Stiles together (Stiles and Peter, too), that's why I chose the pairing(s) to write this story. You don't have to forgive the other person just because you know deep down they're awesome. Awesome people screw up sometimes. The basis of this story is that no everyone is ready to forgive and forget. And that's okay. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you want to give me feedback or just to say hello, write a comment here or come to my [tumblr](http://e-alexandrescu.tumblr.com/)


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